When he found out his wife was unfaithful, Hector Castillo told his son to get in the car because they were going fishing. It was after midnight but this was nothing unusual. The Rickenbacker Bridge suspended across Biscayne Bay was full of night fishermen leaning on the railings, catching up on gossip over beer and fishing lines, avoiding going home to their wives. Except Hector didn’t bring any fishing gear with him.
He was acting like he didn’t hear me but I knew he did. Just walked away as soon as they called his train. Black backpack all high on his shoulders. Bald head glistening in the natural light that made its way into the station through its heavy, bullet-proof windows. They all do that. Walk away. All day long, they turn their faces up, perplexed at the old woman sitting on the splintered wood benches in the El station.
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